Shadow Roll (18 page)

At the track, when the horses were running, there were no quiet moments.  Or quiet places to read private notes—not unless I wanted to be seen and make it part of my “act.”

I didn’t.  Who knew what that rich and crazed skirt had written?

The only two people who spoke to me were the exact two I expected to speak to me.  Saratoga’s shining example of wit and honesty, that great security guard Carroll Goose, and a keyed-up Paul Jarrett.  Paul was back in the purple number with those grotesque yellow flowers.  As for Goose, he was actually manning his post by the betting windows.  Since he considered himself “working,” all I got was a slap on the back and a grin, which was all I could stand.  He’d been drinking.  What a surprise.  Paul, on the other hand, was pacing the hall outside the jock’s room.  Getting threatened by three goons didn’t seem to of rustled a feather, but as an agent, waiting around for the results of each race was making him sweat.  His cut of every dollar they won was one dollar farther away from getting hit over the head with a baseball bat.  Or shot in the back.  Or even the stomach.  Whichever way, it was bound to hurt.

A goon with a gat is usually a goon who itches to use it.  There aren’t that many classy mopes out there.  Just one more thing I was learning about being a PI.  Bogie was always talking to some colorful cheeseball with a great barber, an even better tailor, and a terrific vocabulary.  I was beginning to get it.  Bogie was in the movies and somebody in a place called Hollywood was writing those lines he spoke and the lines spoken to him.

It was no fun growing up.  Your dreams got more and more about what you
felt
like, plus this and that damn personal thing, and less and less about what you
wanted
, like pirates and cowboys and PIs with a way with words and dames.

Turning at the end of the hall so he could pace on back, Paul jumped a little when he saw me.  He also didn’t look too good.  Like maybe he’d caught something.  I hoped it wasn’t catching.  I made the worst patient, especially since there was never any nurse but me.  Most of all, I hoped it wasn’t what Labold caught.  And then I caught myself.  Paul, snitch for fat cats?  That’d be the day.

“Jeez, Russo.  Don’t sneak around like that.”

“I’m not sneaking around.  I’m doing my best to be seen.”

“Why?  I heard you solved the case.  You almost had me convinced, but they turned out accidents after all.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everybody.”  He was patting his pockets, all of them, one after the other.  I took pity and gave him a cigarette—which reminded me I had an unread note in my pocket.  That distracted me for about a second.  I really would save it for when there was a moment where I wasn’t “on show.”

Paul, inhaling half the smoke in one drag, said: “So where you going now?”

“I’m not going anywhere.  None of the cases are solved and until they are, I’m not leaving.”

Paul laughed, a real laugh from deep in his belly.  “Ain’t that just like you.  I should of known.”

“If you were me, Paul, would you walk away?”

“If I was you?  Never.  But since I’m me, yep, I’d walk.  Job’s not paying so what’s the point?”

“The point is I took the job in the first place and pay or no pay, it isn’t over.”

Paul slapped me on the shoulder.  The slightest yelp from my kidney reminded me of one of my many adventures in Saratoga Springs.  “That’s my Sam.  A brave heart through and through.  And stubborn as hell.”

I said, “How’s the races coming?  You collecting winners?”

He shrugged.  “Mostly shows and places.  But it’s still money and I got faith.”

“That’s my Paul.”

I left him there to pace and went on down to the paddock.  The paddock at any track has to be about my favorite place.  Horses ready to run are parading by, nostrils flared, hides jumping, some sweating, some plodding, some with hooves dancing.  The jocks in their silks are taking last minute instruction from trainers or enduring an owner’s opinion.

The smell of leather and horse and hope.  I loved it.

Toby Tyrrell was already up on number nine, a big rangy bay who looked like he was sleepwalking.  A lot of guys don’t bet a horse like that.  They figure he’d sleep in the paddock, he’d sleep in the race.  But a horse like that is relaxed.  Why work up a sweat before you have to?  I liked the look of the nag.  I checked my sheet.  Horse’s name was New World, a son of Geisha by Discovery.  Discovery was producing some great broodmares.  Who knew?  Geisha could be one of them.  New World hadn’t yet shown much in three starts, but he was improving.  It said so, right in the paper.

I was supposed to be showing my face.  Showing it at a betting window seemed as good a place as any.

As I was turning toward the closest window, I caught Toby’s eye.  He’d been adjusting one of New World’s stirrups.  Straightening up, he saw me.  How could he miss seeing me?  I was less than five feet away, on the other side of the barrier.  We stared at each other for what felt like time enough to grow beards.  I did it well.  Practice makes perfect, they say—and I’d been doing a lot of staring since I decided I was Bogart.

Toby lost his race by a nose.  One more furlong, it would of been his and New World’s by three lengths.

Dropping down from the saddle, he saw me again, blinked, turned an interesting shade of red right up to his hairline, then did something I tried to follow.  His eyes, frightened, were looking for something, or more like someone, behind me.  I turned—but whoever it was, wasn’t there.  Or had already turned away.

If he’d been reacting to someone, the choice of who it could be included everyone I knew here or who knew me.  They were all at the paddock looking over the entries for the 4
th
at Saratoga.

The members of the Jockey Club, including Marshall Hutsell and the other two puffed up swells, milled about.  They’d paid me off and kissed me off.  It was swell watching their faces once they caught a load of me: surprised, displeased, disturbed.

Mr. and Mrs. Joker Willingford were not milling.  Mrs. was holding up Mr. backed by a couple of flunkies in case Mrs. tripped.  There was Hank Hanson. Hank wasn’t there for Joker.  Hank was there because he was always there, especially when the horses were running.  It was his job to clean up any sad messes.  I knew he was praying there wouldn’t be any, just as I was.

Like me, Hank was a true blue horse lover.

And oh yeah, there was Hollie Hughes dressed as usual, like he belonged in a circus.  A few jocks were lounging around, pretending they were OK not having a mount in this race—among them, Mash Mooney who’d ridden in the third, coming home fourth.  Mash was listening to his agent, George Labold.  George had a grip on Mash like they were both drowning.  Probably because of Mash losing.  The Travers was coming up fast.  Labold was furious.  Mash was taking it like he had it coming.

Over by the path that led from the paddock to the track was Carl Hessing, the claiming trainer who’d rented me a dashing steed, the one I rode to see how long it would take to get to the lake Manny Walker drowned in.  Carl was chewing on a stogie.  Probably had a horse in something; probably praying no one would claim it.

Behind them all, keeping a safe respectful distance from the “white folk” in an area “reserved” for blacks, was Thomas Clay Jefferson.  And why not?  Even Clay got a day off now and then.  Clay, somehow smaller without his Grand Union uniform, was surrounded by what I assumed was family.

I tried catching his good eye.  He was too busy looking over a form sheet with a fellow who looked like his father.

Pacing back and forth near a beer stand was Paul Jarrett.  I had to hand it to Paul.  He was game.  Any minute the people he owed could walk him away, tired of waiting for their money.  But here he was, just like me, making a show of it.

The biggest stand-out was Mrs. Willingford.  Taken up with my own business, I only now noticed today’s hat.  It was black, small and feathered.  On someone else’s head it’d look like a dead crow.  On hers, it looked smart.  The dress was black and so were her shoes.  But most funereal of all was the flower she held.  A black tulip.

At least it wasn’t a black dahlia.  Police out in L.A. were getting nowhere with that one.  A girl in a vacant lot, sawed in half at the waist, her mouth sliced open from each painted corner all the way up to each delicate ear.  Bad.  Really bad.

Pamela Teager was worse than that.  Because of her age and because of her child and because of the sawing.  I wish I’d never seen it.  Glad I’d never see the girl they called “The Black Dahlia.”

I figured I’d made my play.  By now, everyone who needed a good look at me, had gotten their look.  No one was looking now.  It was Mrs. Willingford who had most of them wondering, and those who weren’t wondering about her and her black tulip, were wondering about their bets.

Stepping behind a hawker of hotdogs and bottled beer, it was time to read the note she’d slipped in my pocket.

It said:
You owe me.  I’d like paying please.  Tonight.

Chapter 35

I wasn’t trying to make heads or tails of who killed Walker, McBartle and Duffy.  I wasn’t sneaking over to Hank’s to know the truth about Jane—if she was alive, I’d get her killed; if she was dead, it would ruin my day and night and probably mess with a lot more of my time.  I wasn’t worrying about Mrs. Willingford’s note—“Tonight” was still long enough away I could pretend it might never come.  What I was doing was lying on my bed in one of the smallest rooms offered by the Grand Union Hotel remembering a time back at the Staten Island Home for Children.  I knew exactly what year it was.  A horse bred in Kansas took the Kentucky Derby.

By the finish line, Lawrin, bred for sprinting, was dropping from pure exhaustion, but he kept on running.  I never forgot that.  Lawrin kept on running—just like I was doing.

In Lawrin’s year I was doing what I usually did in the evening, hanging around outside the window of Mister’s private shack listening to whatever he was listening to on the radio.  Lino was on one side of me, chewing gum.  Lino always chewed gum if he could get it; if he couldn’t get fresh he had a stash of abc stuck under his bed.  Paul was on the other side of me, leaning in so hard one more push and Lino and I would of fallen over into the closest bush.

After dark, us kids were locked in for the night.  All except kids like Lino and Paul and me.  We were the adventurous type.  Us and some others were out whenever we wanted to be by climbing down a length of homemade rope—made out of old sheets we’d found in the back of the so-called linen closet—we’d hung from a bathroom window.  The window was on the third floor.  We’d jimmied that one open around about the time we learned the term: to jimmy.  When not in use, we made sure “our” window was closed and that when it was closed it looked like it could never be opened.  The “rope” we kept hidden under a special floorboard.  I’d bet it was still there.  If it was, there’d also be a bunch of other things we’d stashed away over the years.

Seeing them now, I wondered what I’d think.  I probably wouldn’t think.  I’d probably cry.  That home was tough.

Anyway, that night the show was
Gang Busters
.  Tires squealing.  Machine guns blatting.  Police whistles.  Over all that racket, Mister couldn’t of heard us, even if one of us had fallen off his shack into a bass drum.

Then it was:
Brought to you by Palmolive Soap, tonight, Gang Buster’s presents
—heart stopping pause—
The Case of the Big Switcheroo
.  Or something like that.  It was always something like that.  And we were glued to Mister’s outside wall, rain or snow or sleet or hail.

I used to listen to the tales of G men with my hair on end, struggling to keep my balance between two other kids who were as bewitched as me.

Maybe it was
Gang Busters
more than Bogie that got me where I was today.  Beaten up, fired, knowing for sure I had a case (three cases) but not close to solving them, my dog stabbed, and sure to be getting a visit from Mrs. Willingford before the night was out.

I watched the fan on the Grand Union ceiling.  Three fat blades moving round and round and round, pushing the sluggish Saratoga air—air smelling of sulfur.  Getting sleepy.  Getting sleep—what was I thinking?  Something about
Gang Busters
.  Only a minute ago, two minutes ago—what was it?  Oh right, I remember.  Listening to Mister’s radio.  Palmolive Soap.  Machine guns ratt-attat-ting.  But there was never a
Case of the Big Switcheroo
.  That was just something that popped into my head.

Switcheroo.

Like the shell game played on a sidewalk in any big city from sea to shining sea, the game any carny worth a single red cent got suckers to play.  It was a mug’s game.  Three cups on a board and under one of the cups, a dried pea.  But the pea was palmed.  It was never under a cup.  Three jockeys on a racetrack and under one of the jocks, a fast horse.  But the riders were dead.  None of them rode the horse.

I got it.  I understood.

How do you compare human evil?  Was Hitler worse than Stalin?  Did Albert Fish beat Mister in the Bad Guy Stakes?  Was bumping off talented young jocks as bad as bumping off innocent kids?

I’d fallen asleep dreaming of shell games and
Gang Busters
when my door opened up and in walked Joker Willingford’s wife.  I’d locked the door.  But that was nothing to someone like her.  She simply bribed one of the staff to open it.

This time I was fully clothed, confused by being suddenly woken up, and one eye was glued shut with sleep.

“You look dazzling, honey pie,” said Mrs. Willingford, sweeping across the room and coming to a perfect landing on the edge of my bed.

I would of said thank you, but my mouth wasn’t working yet.  I hate naps.  I especially hate naps when someone slams you out of one.

When I could think, what I thought was Mrs. Willingford was going to take off her clothes again, an act bound to wake me up, but she surprised me—as usual.

First surprise was her clothes.  She was wearing a man’s dark shirt, a pair of men’s slacks, and a man’s hat.  She looked great.